Hot Weather Behaviour

It was a funny realization. Waiting on the platform for the subway was uncomfortably warm. Looking about, I could see various degrees of personal melting.  The train arrived and upon boarding, I stuck my arm out with flat hand open to grab onto the pole before the train jerked forward. No space for my hand. It was piled high with everyone else’s around me. It looked like a baseball bat before a little league game. I looked up at the overhead railing, which was off to the left, and out of my reach, but not out of reach of others. It was empty. Clearly enough space for everyone to my left. I stood there a second longer, taking this in, and then I took it in. The stench of body odor. Clearly no one wanted to raise their arm, exposing themselves to being identified as the source of the wafting scent. Everybody was grasping low on the pole, keeping their elbows in.  I understood, but in fact it wasn’t helping, most of them were warm beyond what their personal hygiene could muster to cover.

Hair

Hair on the floor, under the seat of a subway car at 11 pm.  Not a lot, a nice curved six inch pony tail ball in a lovely muted red color. We had boarded the ‘A’ train at the beginning of the run at 207th, and didn’t notice is at first. While chatting, at around 190th, we saw it. We were seated just a mite too far away to clearly identify if it really was a mound of hair although all alternative suggestions didn’t fit the bill. As the train filled up with Friday night revelers, no one else seemed to notice it. He got off at 59th, leaving me with the mystery unsolved. I couldn’t let it go, had to know by 14th street when I would exit. At 42nd, with only two stops left, I weaved my way through the now crowded car, to the seat under which the hair lay. Initially it was tricky explaining what I was doing, but once understood,  all around the mound everyone got in on the discussion. Hair it was. No one knew why or from whence it had come. No one touched it.

One of the Least of Us

Stepping off the curb, mid block,  with peonies in hand I glanced down. Two eyes were looking up at me. Startled. Me, not it. A lone pigeon, tight up against the curb, between a BMV and a Lexus. At first I just stood there looking down. Knowing I had to do something, hoping it wouldn’t be as bad as it probably was given that the pigeon was not moving. I stood motionless, wishing it would take care of itself.  In my best cooing voice while switching the peonies to the other hand, I reached down to pick up the bird. Trying to position my hand far enough along it’s back that it wouldn’t peck me, while praying it wouldn’t peck me. I placed it on the sidewalk. It fluttered first the right wing, then the left, neither of which worked very well. It fluttered along for about 12 inches then stopped. It stood on it’s right leg, holding it’s left leg in the air. It had my complete sympathy. I could relate. Knowing I couldn’t leave it there, and now leaning on the BMW I placed it a few feet further along, under a tree in the light dirt. I was aware of someone else. I looked up and the owner of the BMW was indulging me while waiting to get to his driver’s side door. I watched him navigate along the bird. As I watched, I realized he didn’t step on it, because he saw me place it there. The next driver would step and crunch it under foot. I waited until he passed. Then I picked the bird up and placed him on the south side where there is no foot traffic and no car traffic. The weeds were high and protective and I hid him between the tree trunk and the feathery weed stalks. I took my flowers home.
As soon as I set the flowers in the sink, I telephoned the veterinarian down the street. I asked the pleasant young man who answered the phone, if they would take the pigeon if I brought it in a shoebox? If unable to help it would they put it out of it’s supposed pain? Yes to everything. An Anne Klein box never had a nobler purpose. I returned to the hidden bird,  and again in my best coo-voice picked him up and added him to the sprig of weed I had already put in the shoe box. With the lid a ajar, I carefully carried the pigeon to the vet’s office. The young man was completely in tune with my idea. He took it in, vowing to do the best for the bird. No heroics. Just a quick end if that was the best. This is exactly how I want it to be for me too. Maybe I can get myself to a vet when the time comes. I know a couple of compassionate ones.

Mice, Rats

It is a curious moment, standing on the edge of the platform, watching the lone mouse scurry between the tracks. In some stations it is the rats. The most amusing moment was at the 14th street station, and the rat was on the platform with the folk. He kept heading toward one man, who put his foot out, like one would to discourage a dog or cat. Finally the rat gave up and went over the side.
Rather cartoonish.

editorial note

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